Englishwoman in France (19 page)

Later, still awake, I stare at the stars and think of Siri, and how I've seen her now, laughing, hand in hand with Tib. That boy has finally shown me not just that he can make things happen but that he's wise beyond his years about the human soul and its yearning.

Then my mind moves on to the complicated things Modeste was trying to explain to me. Spiritual refreshment? Now, I've heard of reincarnation but that's a mere echo of what he was telling me about. His bigger idea takes on the notion of time and space. I can't help myself thinking of the Time Lords. But the Time Lords are a fiction of
my
time. Smiling a little at the notion of Modeste as a Time Lord, I finally drop off to sleep.

Funny, isn't it, that you can sleep within a dream?

T
he next day, Tib is away with the sunrise, his rush bag over his shoulder. I'm sitting at the big table under the trees with sleep still in my eyes. Already the day is hot, close. The sky above the dense tangle of trees is a true, bright blue, full of pulsating light. I peer with my night-fogged eyes towards the bushes, looking in vain for Siri who danced there last night with Tib. Now the bushes part and here is Modeste, up from the river, his skin gleaming and his hair slick and wet. He has this shine about him. Sometimes I see it and sometimes I don't. Today I do.

He nods at me, goes into the hut and emerges with the small leather tube that holds his precious map. He places it carefully on the table then sits beside me to pull on the soft leather leggings that go under his sandal straps. He always wears them when he goes on his lone wanderings. Then he brings another set – Tib's I should think – and puts them on my knee. ‘Put these on,' he says. ‘The undergrowth has teeth.'

‘But you always go on your own.' I'm puzzled.

‘But now you're here,' he says. ‘And you know my quest.'

While I tie on my leggings he lays out the map and looks at it closely again. ‘See here? I've been here. And here, in this time and others, I've searched so long.' His own pathways are marked on the path in dots of ochre paint. ‘I've been to each place suggested by my reading and my other maps. And other places hinted to me by the good Cesseroneans who have long history in their heads. And always I am brought back here, to this ridge by Cessero. There is something here, I'm sure of it . . .' There is strain, worry in his voice. I have to say I feel perverse delight deep inside to hear the always so calm and assured Modeste sound uncertain, almost boyish.

So we set out, side by side, following the pathways Modeste has marked and along other ways where there is no path at all. At one point we're parallel to what Modeste calls ‘the great road', well paved with shining basalt blocks. We turn away at the point where the way leads over a wonderful bridge carrying the road over the rushing river below.

We tramp through the village of Cessero and the people watch and bow as before, but today Modeste isn't carrying his doctor's pack so they leave him in peace. After a while we begin to climb upwards through trees and undergrowth, towards a ridge of land that looks down on Cessero. Finally we come to a stand of five ancient lime trees just under the ridge. They're growing at an odd angle. Some parts of them reach to the sky but near their roots other trunks have been forced to twist upwards to find the sky again.

Modeste places a hand on the nearest tree. ‘I think these trees are a pointer, a clue. Perhaps the land collapsed inward here. An eruption? There have been many around here.' He looks around. ‘The Cesseroneans don't come here often. They look on this place with awe. One old man, whom I tended as he died, said there's a temple somewhere here dedicated to Emperor Tiberius, who travelled here in retreat from his worldly cares.' He smiles faintly. ‘But then the old woman who brings us bread tells me it is the grove of Cernunnos, their old god of fertility and animals. Also known as the Horned One.'

I begin to realize that he's searched for this place within my waking life as well as here in this dream. I shiver and he smiles. ‘These are innocent beliefs, Florence, made real by the way these people live their lives. Even those who pray with us in true belief bring flowers and woven gifts to this grove in the spring to bless the planting. They leave their offerings at the edge of the clearing. It's their custom.'

He leads me to a space between and behind two of the trees which have grown so closely together. He pulls away some branches. Now before us is a gaping hole about three feet square. On the ground is an iron scoop and a rush lantern, obviously his. He takes flint from his pack and lights the lantern and holds it into the hole. ‘Look!'

At the far end of the hole I can make out a wall with a tessellated frieze at the bottom. The wall is muddy but I can make out ochre and a dirty blue, which might once have been purple. He holds the torch closer. ‘Look!' he repeats. There above the frieze, in paint as black as liquorice, someone has drawn a fish. And someone else has drawn one in green above it, swimming in the opposite direction. This is Pisces, my pagan sign, but also the sign by which these believers know each other.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. He puts a hand across my shoulders. ‘The Cesseroneans have it right, don't they, Florence? This is a holy place. A proper place to protect something precious.'

‘So you think the women brought . . . brought . . . here?'

I can feel him shrug. ‘I don't know what was placed here. But something was.' He's excited. ‘It could be something about the Magdalene and the Maries who landed. Or it could be something much older. I have this news of a better map in a letter from Setus. We're near the end, Florence. I feel it.'

‘It could put the cat among the pigeons of course!' Irreverent, I know, but they are the words that come out of my mouth.

‘Just so.' His body stands rigid beside me.

‘So, do we dig, to find out more?' After all, he's a scholar as well as a priest. A searcher after the truth.

He relaxes and squeezes my shoulder. ‘Sufficient today, Florence, that I've shared all this with you. You have helped me think about this, made me think it might be worthwhile to come back and dig further.'

I breathe out, relieved by his procrastination. He throws the torch down, then scoops the earth back into the hole so that it covers the wall again and spreads the branches and shrubs to disguise the disturbance. As we trudge back in the direction of the camp I can feel Modeste relaxing, putting from his mind the heavy responsibility of what to do about the explosive contents of the shrine. I take his hand and we walk slowly back along by the green glittering river. The sunlight flickers over our faces through the overhanging branches and small animals skitter across the path before us. The air is thick and warm and above us in the trees the birds sing as though they are in paradise.

Later, having welcomed Tib home from his foraging with hugs and questions about his haul, we eat supper together. Then he, bleary eyed, retires to bed. Modeste and I sit for a while then make our way to our hideaway where we lie side by side looking up at the stars. He asks me how – in my way – I see Pisces, the sign of the fishes. I try to explain but I keep seeing the crude painting on the wall of the cave and my voice fades at the triviality of it all. Then he brings an end to the talk by kissing me and I have to adjust my view.

This is the very best of the dream. No doubt about that.

M
isou is barking loudly, weaving between the trees, jumping up and down, vanishing and reappearing into our hideaway. Embarrassed at the thought that Tib might follow the little dog, Modeste and I spring apart and leap to our feet, brushing off the sticks and leaves still adhering to our habits.

A shadow emerges through a curtain of dark, bearing a torch. Now we can make out a man – no, two men; one younger, one older and grizzled. They have the rocking walk of sailors, or squaddies. The older one lifts his torch and peers at Modeste. ‘Messire Doctor. I see it is you.' He swings the lantern towards me. ‘But this is not the boy, the Governor's son. Where is he? Who might this one be?'

‘Welcome, Peter,' says Modeste briefly. ‘We have here another follower. The Governor's son is in the encampment. You should follow me.'

Modeste's tone demands compliance. He leads the way and I bring up the rear, walking behind the younger sailor down the narrow path back to the camp. Outside the hut Modeste calls Tib's name. We can hear rustling and muttering. We've obviously woken him up from his customary deep sleep. He comes out of the hut rubbing his eyes.

The old sailor stands before Tib and bows very deeply. The younger one follows suit. ‘Messire,' says the old one. ‘My master, and also your mother send you greetings.'

Tib doesn't ask about his parents, as most children might have done. He stares at the old man, a flicker of something in his eyes. Fear? Curiosity? It's hard to tell. Modeste moves forward, so that his broad shoulder is slightly in front of Tib. He says brusquely, ‘It's a long way merely to bring a message, Peter.'

The old man nods. ‘We are but forerunners, messire. We bring news that the Governor's wife, mother to the young master, is nearby. She's on the river even now on the Governor's barge, taking her rest till the morning, when we will guide her to your . . .' He looks round at the simple camp, which looks nothing in the shadows of night. ‘The place where you're living.' He pauses, obviously aware of some drama to come. ‘She will greet you here and then you are to return with her to Good Fortune to speak to the Governor.'

Tib looks up at Modeste and across to the seaman. ‘My father?'

‘Peter,' says Modeste sternly, ‘you're aware that it would be unsafe for the boy to return to his father's house? You and I know the boy would not be safe.' Modeste knows this man; he is obviously no stranger.

The old man shrugs. ‘I just obey my master's orders, messire. I heard rumours of your sojourn in Cessero so I knew where to come. My mistress will talk with you and the boy. She says there will be assurances.' He sounds anxious, unwilling to do a bad thing. A good man – Aquarius, I would guess. But in these times would you know precisely when a person was born? Is the calendar fixed? I wish I'd taken more notice in school.

Tib steps out in front of the man called Peter. ‘We handled the sail well, Peter. Is that not so, Modeste?' His tone is friendly.

Modeste nods. ‘I cannot deny this. You taught him well, Peter.'

The man nods, smiling slightly. ‘That's good to hear, messires.' He turns to go.

‘Where do you go, Peter?' says Tib, quite sharply. Not for the first time I think that for all Tib's light voice and small stature, he has the presence of a man.

‘Back to our boat, messire. Then downstream. We'll report back to the Governor's wife, then, catching the downstream current, fast home.'

‘You must stay here.' Tib indicates the hut. ‘I will sleep with Modeste and you and your mate can share my bunk.' He pauses. ‘And tomorrow that gripe you have in your belly will be gone.'

The seaman puts a hand over his stomach. ‘But messire . . .'

‘Do it, seaman!' says Modeste, grinning. ‘When Tib speaks we all jump.'

So that's how I end up spending the night in very close quarters with three men and a boy. I have to say I've had better sleeping experiences, even inside this dream. The new combination of grunts, farts, and snorts is just too much, so within an hour I take Misou out to the clearing and lie there with him on my chest to keep me from freezing.

I'm stiff as a board at daylight, when Modeste comes in search of me. He rubs my chilly hands and face to bring them back to life and tells me that the seamen have returned to their boat to guide Lady Serina's barge nearer our landing.

Misou jumps down, shakes his body as though he's just been doused with water, then skips off to greet Tib.

‘So Tib is summoned?' I am finally able to talk. ‘He really has to go to his father?'

‘We're both summoned. The fact that Lady Serina has come for us means we must go. We cannot flee, for our honour.'

‘Surely it could be very dangerous? You said his father . . .'

Now Modeste is picking twigs off my habit. ‘I just don't know, Florence. I know the Lady Serina wishes us both well. But her husband Helée? He's a difficult man. He's a weak man who presents himself as strong. And he worships the Emperor and the Empire above all. Even his family. That makes him dangerous.'

When we get back to the camp Tib is at the big table already sorting herbs. He beams steadily at me. ‘My mother Serina comes today, Florence! She will love you and you will surely love her. We will greet her and go to my father. Modeste and I have prayed and I know this journey will be a good thing. We will all go. You as well. My mother will love you.'

I smile back at him. He's irresistible. As Modeste said to the seaman yesterday, when Tib speaks, we all jump.

T
he lady coming towards me could only be Tib's mother. Not much older than me, she has a broad, curvaceous figure under the folds of her embroidered linen tunic. Her yellow silk shawl is floor length, pinned over one shoulder with a copper brooch in the shape of a daisy with glittering petals of amber. The lady's hair, bright as a penny, is crimped and drawn back in a sculptural fashion, making her blue eyes wider and her sandy brows more marked. Unlike Modeste, or most of these Gauls, she is not at all dark.

Somewhere behind us Misou is barking wildly. The oldest seaman has him by the scruff of his neck.

This meeting is all quite formal. Modeste bows deeply and she nods, half smiling. Tib bows a little less deeply and she puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks at her quickly and then away. ‘Mother . . . Lady Serina,' he says.